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By an old willow tree sits a man in his thirties. His head supported by his hands and neck, as he stares below. What could be on his mind that captivates him so? Maybe he ponders on life; the meaning of it; the necessity of it. As I look at him I enjoy the similarities between him and the ancient beside him. If his body was a tree, a willow is what it would have been. Is he studying a beetle on the ground or a pattern left in the sand? I bet he is seeing nothing at all; inundated by his thoughts. Chances are that he is thinking about all the goals he should have achieved by now. Strangely, as teenagers we never see ourselves living beyond thirty. Most goals are set to have been achieved by thirty; thirty three at the latest. But, we do live beyond thirty; though it’s tough at first. The thirties is a turning point for all, some for better others for worse. It is the point of realization that life continues and that teenage goals are silly. Even in your twenties you can not grasp how much your life will change. Not everyone can be a pilot or a fireman; some need to be clerks. I wonder how he supports himself. His discontentment transmits a dismissal or retrenchment. Maybe: the betrayal of a friend or lover? What ever it is, he hardly seems aware of where he is. As I sit and observe, I study the dissimilarities between him and the tree. The tree is rooted, while he seams lost; green versus grey. Yet he appears to be the one that is not free. The willow even seems happier than him; such a silly observation. Will he trade the suit and tie for a family life? Will he continue to the chase idealistic goals of an ambitious youngster? What am I doing here? I’m just sitting here beside my friend, the willow tree; staring at the ground. |
| By : Thys Groesbeek |